Seven Virtues
by sarcastic rabbit
Summary: Seven drabbles, seven virtues, seven characters and a lot of 'What If's.' Written for a prompt by tammy-drabbles on livejournal.
1. Chastity

**Seven Virtues **

* * *

_Tortall and its characters belong to Tamora Pierce. The Seven Holy Virtues of the Roman Catholic Church (chastity, temperance, charity, diligence, forgiveness, kindness, humility) are the opposite of the Seven Deadly Sins (lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy, pride)._

_Thanks to Sally for beta-ing._

_I wrote this for the drabble prompt 'virtues' with a concept foremost in mind, and I think the writing turned out a poor second. I do like one of the drabbles however, and maybe people will be entertained by some of the ideas._

* * *

**Chastity – Delia **

* * *

Prince Jonathan is stunned.

"Nothing to say, Your Highness?" says Delia archly.

"This wasn't what I expected when you asked for a private conversation in the garden," Jon says slowly. "Is this one of your jokes, Lady Delia, or are you serious?"

"Quite serious, Your Highness."

Delia is good at playing games and Jon has always found her hard to read. Her expression isn't giving him any hints as to how he should react. She look as unconcerned as though she's been commenting on the weather, rather then telling him she plans to leave Court and take orders with the Daughters of the Goddess who run the temple in Corus and eschew the touch of men.

"I'm not sure I understand," Jon says, trying to make sense of the situation. "This is a drastic step; one that most girls consider carefully for years before making. I thought you loved Court life."

Delia's green eyes lose what little expression they held. She speaks in a flat voice. "I did. I still do, sometimes. I've made some bad choices since coming to Court, Your Highness. And if I stay, I don't think I'll be able to stop."

"You can't have done anything that terrible Delia," Jon says, trying to reassure her. "If you need someone to talk to—"

"No!" says Delia, suddenly fierce. Her eyes flash passionately and her delicate red mouth thins into a willful and stubborn line. "I've thought about this over and over. The things that I'm willing to do here—I look in the mirror some mornings and I can't even recognize the person I've become. My parents expect me to make some grand marriage, and I used to think I wanted that too, but maybe it was only ever because I didn't know there was anything else to want! I need to do this Jonathan!" Her porcelain skin is flushed with colour, turning her radiant and a little desperate.

Jon is floored by her sudden honesty. He can't recall a time when Delia has ever spoken to him without some level of pretense. He says gently, "But if you are taking orders in the temple just to get away, what if you are unhappy there as well? It's not something that is easily undone."

Delia shakes her head immediately. "I've spent some time over the last few months speaking to Mother Adviota and the other Daughters, and I truly believe that this is my calling. I feel something in the temple that I've never felt elsewhere. I think that I can use my life to serve the Goddess well."

Jon breathes out a long sigh of surrender. "If this is the path you choose, then I wish you happiness Delia. I'll miss you though." He searches for the right words. "I feel as though you are one of the few people at Court who understands what it is to find fault with convention; who realizes that there are other possibilities out there to discover."

Jon reaches out and takes her hand. "Will you let me write to you in the temple? As a friend?"

Delia smiles at him with a good deal more warmth than Jon has ever received from her before. There is relief there as well.

"I'd like that very much Jonathan," she says.


	2. Temperance

**Temperance – Raoul **

* * *

The Own are back home and in the highest of spirits. The Scanran War is over and Corus welcomes them as heroes.

Raoul looks on indulgently at the Royal Banquet in their honour as his men celebrate. He's already threatened to send to the Scanrans any soldier who disgraces the Own with his behaviour.

Shy Wolset and sullen Eldorne come up to him with Masbolle at their heels. Wolset's smiling ear to ear and even Eldorne looks grudgingly happy. Masbolle's carrying a prize; an enormous crystal decanter of brandy wrapped in his arms with the loving care a mother would give her newborn.

"Care to come drink with us Sir?" Dom grins, full of easy-going devilry. "A toast of the finest brandy in the Royal cellars to the brave soldiers of Third Company."

"Nice try Masbolle," Raoul says placidly. "You think that if you get your Commander sodden, I won't notice the rest of you louts turning a civilized affair into a back-alley party."

Wolset looks guilty. Lerant merely turns to Dom and says, "You owe me four gold nobles."

Dom shrugs, unbothered. "Just doing my best to make the banquet a success, Sir."

Raoul doesn't buy it for a second. "Don't think I won't hand out latrine duty at a banquet for the Own, Sargent."

"Right you are, Sir." Dom salutes lazily. "We'll be off then. Should I leave the brandy?"

"Take it with you," Raoul says. "I never touch the stuff myself."


	3. Charity

**Charity – Thom **

* * *

The spring floods have wreaked devastation on the villages in this valley. The road is solid mud—impassable to wagons--and the surrounding fields will have to be replanted once the water drains away.

Master Si-cham has finishing re-tucking the ends of his long orange robe into his belt to keep it out of the mud. It exposes his muck-covered leggings and knobby knees, but his appearance has never been one of his concerns. He leans heavily on his walking staff, glad of a chance to catch his breath, and waits for his companion to catch up.

Squelching loudly through greedy mud that tries to keep its tenacious hold at every step, Thom makes his way laboriously over to Si-cham.

"Faugh!" Thom calls in disgust as he draws near. "I would have said it was impossible to hate this journey any more than I did six hours ago, when we left, but my loathing has reached new heights previously unattained by man." His pale, narrow face is pinched with annoyance and fatigue. "Master Si-cham, your taste in destinations leaves much to be desired."

"A little mud never hurt anyone Master Thom," replies Si-cham cheerfully. "The nobility of Tusaine and Galla have the custom of taking baths in a particular kind of mud as a restorative for ill-health. It's also said to do wonders for one's skin."

Thom makes a terrible face. "Pigs bathe in mud too, and the only thing it restores is their stench."

"What did those villagers have to say?" Si-cham enquires. "And don't think that I didn't see you slipping your dinner to that young man. We can't stop to help everyone along the way," he cautions. Thom has a prickly nature and an abrasive tongue, but Si-cham's favourite and most Gifted student has a remarkably kind heart underneath.

Typically, Thom brushes off any mention of his generosity. "You're getting as blind as a bat, Old Man," he sneers. "You saw no such thing." Less defensively he adds, "They're in a bad way. Home unlivable, crops ruined, animals drowned. They'll have to apply to their Lord's bounty and hope the Fief can be their support until they can plant again. But everyone is in the same situation. I doubt there will be enough to go around."

"Well thanks to you, this family at least will have food in their bellies tonight," Si-cham says. He adopts a severe tone of voice, but Thom will know him well enough to hear the humour in his words. "As your Master, I forbid you to give anyone the clothes off your back. I refuse to be seen with a naked disciple. As the head of our order, I have my dignity to maintain."

"Hah!" says Thom, looking down his sharp nose witheringly. "You stopped being my Master when I passed the exams—ten years ahead of schedule, I might add! And I couldn't possibly give these robes away. No one would have them. Was it Mithros' terrible joke on his mortal servants that he requires us to dress in hideous orange sackcloth? Or was the priest who picked these robes merely colour-blind and possessed of a skin like sandpaper?" Thom's considerable vanity is hindered by his merely average looks and by the hated orange robes, which go badly with his colouring. Streaks of sweat have turned his reddish eyebrows and hair dark brown. There is mud in his beard.

Si-cham enjoys teasing him and finds much amusement in Thom's sharp comments. "Protest away, Master Thom. It looks as though Lady Alanna is not the only Trebond who follows the Code of Chivalry," he observes slyly.

"My dear sister has far more important things to do as Champion than waste her time on hopeless missions of mercy in the Kingdom's finest-quality muck. No doubt she goes on _clean_ missions."

Thom adores his sister. He takes every opportunity he can to talk about her accomplishments as a knight with such pride. Yet he fails to see the worth in himself. Privately, Si-cham thinks that the Goddess did Tortall's people a great service the day that she handed out extraordinary blessings to _both_ of Trebond's newly-born twins.

Out loud he merely says, "Well Master Thom, if my old bones can handle a few more miles of this road, then your youthful vigour should give you no reason to complain. Let's be off: we have a dam to repair."


	4. Diligence

**Diligence – George **

* * *

It's rare for someone born in the Lower City to make good but George Cooper is the exception. By the time he's forty-five he owns the largest bank in Corus. He does business with all the major merchants and traders in the city and a good many nobles. He makes a small fortune by financing profitable Tortallan ventures that more than reward his investment; in mining, wool and textiles, shipping, and the sea-going trade of tea, spices and foreign luxury goods.

Yet George hasn't forgotten his humble upbringing. There is a fully-equipped Hall of Healers in the Lower City that bears his name. His much-loved wife Thayet, an exiled princess from Sarain, teaches common-born children and adults to read and write in the first of the schools she opens in Corus.

George is known for his down-to-earth common sense, his love of life, his ability to drive a hard bargain, and above all his sense of humour. When people ask about the secret to his success, he laughs broadly and merely says, "I wanted to make my mother proud!"


	5. Forgiveness

**Forgiveness – Numair **

* * *

"I beg your pardon, Madam!—this is entirely due to a misunderstanding. You see, I mistook you for someone else—an old friend. I am attempting to rectify a past mistake. I was somewhat hasty with my temper on a particular occasion and I have come to regret my actions."

The woman standing before him as he hurries to explain is as tall as Numair. She has long, slender legs and arms, skin weathered a deep, coarse brown by years of exposure to the sun, and masses of thick, tangled hair bleached to an ashy blond colour that looks pale green in a certain light.

There is quite a bit of skin on display; the woman is naked. Numair is trying to apologize while keeping his eyes somewhere beside her left ear.

The woman stands gracefully and her face is peaceful. Her dark eyes are appalled. She opens her mouth and the sound that comes out is like the wind rustling through hundreds of leaves in an angry thunderstorm.

"Of course I am going to turn you back," says Numair. "Just one moment." He raises a hand and says a short phrase whose syllables get swallowed up by the air almost before his mouth has finished making the sounds.

Thick-ridged brown bark sprouts on the woman's legs and encloses them, drawing them together. As quickly as a thought it spreads, rooting into the ground, traveling up her thighs and torso, swallowing her arms as she flings them upwards and freezing her fingers into stillness. A mass of green leaves decorate the tree where her hair used to be, rosy-red apples sitting here and there like jewels. The face of the woman is set into the trunk at head height. Instead of skin, ridges of bark protrude a little into her features. Only her deep eyes are the same. Numair speaks to her.

"I'm very sorry to have disturbed you, Madam, but it was an honest mistake. It's difficult for me to tell you apart. Do you think you might be able to help? You may have seen my friend. He'd be a tree past his first youth, quite handsome, a little twisted—"

The mouth opens and the tree whispers a disdainful reply, the breeze gently ruffling her leaves.

"Thank you," says Numair. "That's very helpful."

The dark eyes serenely ignore him. Numair wonders if perhaps she's embarrassed by the whole thing. He says a final word and the bark face melts smoothly into the rest of the trunk.

Numair walks a little further into the orchard and to the right. He stops in front of a tree that looks like all the others, except the apples it carries are a particularly toxic colour of yellow.

Numair beams. "Tristan!"


	6. Kindness

**Kindness – Joren **

* * *

"Mindelan! Hold up. I'd like a word, please."

Kel tenses up even as she stops and turns around in the corridor. Her stomach is churning with a sick, awful feeling but at least her face is expressionless. She clasps her hands tightly behind her back and takes a deep breath for steadiness.

"Keladry, isn't it? I am Joren of Stone Mountain."

Kel gives a polite half-bow, not trusting her voice. She remembers this boy from the first meeting when Lord Wyldon addressed all the pages. Surrounded by many friends he had looked cold and proud. Up close he is even more handsome than she had thought: hair so fair it is nearly white, and a noble's elegant bones and hauteur. Are his cool blue eyes unfriendly? Kel can't tell, distracted by long blond eyelashes.

"I know Nealan has taken you on as your sponsor, but I like to greet all the new pages and see how they are settling in. It can be a little overwhelming to adjust to page training and life at the Palace all at once," Joren says. "How has your first day gone?"

"Not very well," she says. Kel was determined to see this through without letting anyone know her own doubts and fears, but this handsome boy's kindness following so closely after the awful interview makes her want to speak out for once.

"I don't know if I'll be allowed to settle in."

Joren gives her a puzzled look.

"I had an interview with Lord Wyldon," Kel says reluctantly. "I'm on probation for one year. To stay, I have to pass to his satisfaction."

Joren seems genuinely shocked. "I had no idea. That doesn't sound like my Lord. Are you sure you took the meaning of his words correctly?"

"He made himself very clear," says Kel evenly. She can still feel the disbelief and humiliation she felt under the Training Master's severe dark eyes.

Joren's brows are furrowed in thought. He considers intently for several moments before meeting Kel's gaze again. "I know Lord Wyldon well, Keladry, and he is a fair man." Looking at her face, he insists, "No—You feel unjustly treated, and you have reason, but this is not the Lord Wyldon I know. He is my godfather," Joren says. "My parents died when I was young and Lord Wyldon and Lady Vivenne raised me as their own. Lord Wyldon is a man who loves his daughters and his wife very much. Lady Vivenne would make him sleep in the stables for a month if he ever made them feel unfit on account of being female! I can only think that being the kind of father who would die before putting his own daughters in danger has clouded his judgment with you. Prove yourself Keladry," says Joren, "and Lord Wyldon will come around."

Kel hadn't considered that the stiff and cold Training Master might have personal reasons for not wanting to train a girl. If Joren is right, then the problem is with the Training Master's own feelings and nothing to do with whether she, Kel, is suitable. She feels unexpectedly hopeful.

"Do you think so?"

"Of course," Joren says. "His exterior can come across as strict and harsh, but underneath he is a very kind man. He is just reluctant to show it."

The thought makes Kel smile. If it is true, then Lord Wyldon's behaviour is unexpectedly Yamani-like for a Tortallan. Kel proved herself worthy to the Yamani in the end, even though it took time and effort. She can do the same again.

Joren smiles back. Kel decides that her first impression of him was wrong. He is a little too stuck on his dignity as a noble: that is what made him seem unfriendly at first. But he is actually a kind person.

"Come on Mindelan." Joren claps Kel on the shoulder. "Let's go find the others."


	7. Humility

**Humility – Roger **

* * *

King Roald and Duke Roger are having a quiet drink in the King's chambers to celebrate the finished peace treaty they have negotiated with the Carthaki delegation.

Roald sips at his wine, standing erect and dignified by the window. "I still don't know what you said to that man, Cousin, that made him so agreeable to our position."

Roger smiles where he is sprawled, as relaxed and satisfied as a well-fed lion, on the sofa. "Trust me, Roald. You don't want to know."

Roald quirks a brow at him, dryly amused. "Very well. I'll let you keep your secrets." He pauses, looking out over the city. The sun is setting. He can see it glinting off the river, snaking its way through the centre, and the roofs of the Temple district. A flock of black birds arrow across the sky.

"Cousin. Have you ever wondered what would have happened if you had been born the King, and I your heir?" He turns to the other man. Most strangers remark first on the obvious similarities of their shared blood; and then almost immediately after on how different they are. Roald leads his people with a reserved authority, while Roger exerts his considerable influence through an inborn charisma, subtle and dangerous.

Roger's gaze becomes distant and turns inward. He is silent for a time.

"I won't lie to you," he says finally. "There was a time in my youth when I struggled with it. I wavered in my loyalty, wanting the throne for myself. But thankfully I outgrew such nonsense." He looks up at Roald, meeting his eyes steadily. "I realized it was my role in life to use my birth and abilities for this: acting as your right hand, guarding Lianne and young Jon, helping you make our country great. I believe that if the gods had meant for me to rule I would have been born King. I was not."

Roald regards him quietly. "Never doubt that I appreciate everything you have done for me. You're a good man, Roger."


End file.
